Page 41 of My Fallen Saint

“Don’t let her bother you,” the godlike stranger says, angling his head to indicate the departing Anna. “You’re a reporter and you’re poking around in her house.”

“She was actually lovely,” I say.

“Was she?” His mouth curves down. “Wonders never cease.”

“I’m sorry, you are?” I look from him to Lamar.

“Sorry,” Lamar says, “Elsa Holmes meet Ronan Thorne.”

Of course that’s his name. I amend my earlier thought. Forget Nordic god. He’s more suited for movie star or romance novel hero.

“Good to meet you,” he says, which is when I realize I’ve been standing quietly like an idiot. “I met Lamar at the DSF’s last shindig. He tells me you two went through the Academy together?”

“We did. But after two years in uniform, I gave it all up to write. I’m a traitor to my family name.”

“Her father used to be Chief,” Lamar says.

“And now you fight the good fight with a keyboard.”

“That’s the gig,” I say, deciding I like this guy. “So how do you know Anna? Are you with the foundation?”

“Not as an employee. I’m what the DSF refers to as an ambassador.”

“Which means?”

“Pretty much whatever they want it to.” He grins, but I don’t think he’s kidding.

“I’m not following.”

“Essentially, I’m a volunteer. I have a full-time job, but I put in time here when I can, and travel to liaison with the organizations the DSF supports when time permits and they need someone on the ground.”

“That sounds like a sweet deal. How did you become an ambassador?”

“Devlin recruited me.”

“Oh?” I take a step closer as I realize I may be talking to one of Devlin’s personal friends. Which means this man may be part of the missing years. “How do you two know each other?”

“We served together,” he says. “I’ve seen how much havoc war and poverty can inflict on people. So when Devlin asked me to sign on, I jumped all over it.”

“What about your day job?”

“Independent security consultant. Which makes things easy.”

“I guess so. Nice work if you can get it, right?”

“You’re a journalist,” he says. “That’s some bit of freedom, isn’t it?”

“Not if you want a steady paycheck. I work at a magazine, so deadlines, assignments. Freelance would be a much harder gig.” I glance around the room, wondering if Devlin’s noticed that I’m talking to his friend, but I don’t see him anywhere.

“He was called away,” Thorne says, when I wonder aloud where he could be. “I talked to him before he left. An emergency.”

“That’s a shame.” It’s only ten, and though the crowd is thinning out, the event isn’t over until midnight. “He’s not ill, is he?”

“He’s fine. With the kind of work he does, sometimes there’s a need.”

“Could I steal a few minutes of your time? I’m writing a piece on the foundation and would love your perspective.”

“Rain check? I’m actually on my way out, too.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” I hope I don’t sound as eager as I feel, but the possibility of a source other than Devlin makes me giddy. And if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that it’s not about my article. No, I want to know about Devlin Saint. The man Alex is now.

I want to know about the past. About where he went, and what he’s done. About how he started the foundation.

That’s when it occurs to me that no one else in this room knows what I do—that the man who is the face of this organization is a fiction. And that with a single word, I could bring this entire house of cards tumbling down.